


Carnival

by vaingloriousactor



Category: Assassins - Sondheim/Weidman
Genre: Gen, and the balladeer an angel, for how these characters should be, look i firmly believe the proprietor is a demon, my very vivid headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 17:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12988479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaingloriousactor/pseuds/vaingloriousactor
Summary: When a demon comes of age, he is given a domain, but it is up to him to decide how he wants to create it. The Proprietor goes through the motions and remembers a strange upbringing as he shows his first...inmate around.





	Carnival

**Author's Note:**

> Don't judge me. "Assassins" is great

“What is all of this?” The man leans on the cane the being had given him, pointing up at the multi-colored lights flashing above a series of carts spinning at lightning speed.

“That,” the being, the Proprietor as he had introduced himself, pulled a lever as the cards grinded to a halt, “is what is called a Tilt-a-Whirl.”

“Is that all there is here? Other than the bedrooms.”

“Well,” the Proprietor bit his lip and sorted through his words, “for now, yes. But that’s also why you’re here. This isn’t heaven, Johnnyboy, don’t expect pure relaxation.”

The now dead man looked ahead at the spreading lot of mostly empty land, at the base foundation of various stands and rides, the faintest outlines of ideas he couldn’t even comprehend. He looked up at the sign towering above them both, at the shining lights and bright paint that read, “Everybody’s Got the Right to be Happy,” at once a taunting message to the man that had been pretty brutally killed not too long before and beacon of hope. Maybe being dead wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Here, I’ll show you the ideas.” The Proprietor waved for Johnny to follow him, weaving around the rubble that would become the carnival, leading him to the room Johnny inferred must be his own. From a shelf, he produced  a series of sketches, blueprints for his vision. “Isn’t it something else?”

“I haven’t seen anything like it.”

 

_ He had been a boy then, in the way that demons are born and grow up and are bestowed their stations when they reach a certain age then. He was a small child, weak, unable to transform his shape into a more palatable, more human form. And he ran away. He knew he had clambered to the living plane, he had accompanied that realm before with his father, watched in awe and terror as the older demon ripped a man’s soul from his very being, watched as his father crushed the silvery essence and it turned to dust between his fingers. _

_ “Some men don’t even deserve hell” his father had said. That line had stuck with him, festered within him.  _

_ No, he grew to believe. They deserve more than ashes and dust. He did too. Even as he was taunted, his tail tugged on cruelly while the other children had already chosen shapes different from their own, he believed he deserved even a glimmer of happiness. And so he ran away before he was supposed to. _

_ It wasn't anything like he had seen of the living realm before.  Before his very eyes springing to life was a feast of light, color, music.  There were tents brimming with delighted laughter and contraptions tossing human men and women in the air. And there were freaks, freaks like him, women with beards and men with no legs who balanced on their hands. But the sight and sound that truly captured his attention was a stand with red and white striped fabric bordering a series of targets, all circled in flashing lights.  The man behind the counter, at once sinister and welcoming, made eye contact with him. _

_ “You wanna give it a try?” He had asked, extending a hand with a small, brightly hued pistol. _

_ And the demon  knew love for the first time. _

 

“Of course you haven’t seen anything like it, this is all after your time. What year is it for you? Year you last remember,that is.”

“1865. What year is it here?”

“Hell if I know. It isn’t a year. Sometimes it is. Depends on how I feel. Now, come. This is what I have in mind as our main attraction. You’re gonna love it, the sharp shooter you are.”

The being’s eyes gleamed and Johnny truly registered his hellish nature, following him, trying not to lose sight of the boater hat, even across the mostly empty landscape.

“What is this?” He pointed at the installation. It looked like some type of merry-go-round, operated by a lever. The hell being winked and turned a crank and music blared. 

“Hail to the Chief. A southern song at heart.”

“You say that now.” The demon commented, still watching the contraption, as a series of figures, cut-outs perhaps, Johnny could not tell. He noticed the machine had stopped and he was face to face with his own victim. “And fire!”

He complied, as if the hatred had boiled up and spilled over all over again.

“Satisfying no?”

“Very.” A pause. “Who are the others? The other images I mean.”

“Oh those are the victims of your future fellow residents. You paved the way old boy. How’s it feel?”

_ When he was older, far older than he had any right to be, and he learned to change his form, he knew what he had settled on.  He traveled the world in search for the perfect realm. From Coney Island, to the burgeoning empire of a man from Chicago with the mouse on his shoulder (he always hated mice and made a deal with himself they woudn’t be in his limbo), to Austria to Brazil to France. He could create a realm at once horrifying and welcoming. He knew he didn’t get a good hand. _

_ “Presidential Assassins” his mother had told him. “It was the best we could do for you, I’m sorry.”  _

_ But he made do. He would make do. And if they were stuck in his limbo, he had some tricks up his sleeve. He might not have been a strong demon, but he was a clever one. _

_ The angel appeared first when he had started construction. A plucky, fair-haired thing with a guitar on his shoulder.  _

_ “Demoted. Not fallen. They didn’t really like my message about America. But they told me you needed a counter-balance.” He kicked at the ground. “The place could do with some touching up.” _

_ The demon had decided he hated him. But the angel came up with good names for them both, titles, identities.  The Balladeer that’s what he called himself, morally upstanding, optimistic, the song of the country’s heart. _

_ “I want to be the Carnie.” The demon told him. _

_ “That’s a terrible name. No one would listen to you. You want to sell them your promise of happiness. More backhanded. Like a snake oil or used car salesman.” _

_ The demon was, quite frankly, offended at this assertion but he only grumbled a little bit because his thoughts of murder were interrupted by a suggestion from the angel’s part-- _

_ “The Proprietor. More ambiguous.” _

_ Fuck. He really liked that sound of that. _

“Hell of a name you got for yourself. I like it. Very  _ performative _ . And I know a thing or two about performance.” The actor smiled, leaning against the monstrosity that was the new carousel. 

“No you don’t, Booth. Hand me the wrench.” The demon avoided eye contact, but couldn’t restrain a smile when he saw the inky remainder of the actor’s initials on his left wrist. He quickly looked back at the ride.

“Did you come up with it yourself?”

“Of course I did.” He still avoided eye contact. For a moment. But then he looked up at the actor who smiled, a warm, genuine smile, one he didn’t expect from a human capable of murder.

“Liar.” He winked and crouched beside the demon, the pair of them listening as the calliope music started to play. He could still feel the human smiling. Maybe happiness wasn’t totally out of the question after all. 

He felt secure in his decision.


End file.
